Underground London
by jack63kids
Summary: John is due to be married in a few days, but his prospective wife doesn't ever do anything the easy way. HRH stands for Her Royal Highness, for non-Brits.
1. Mexican Standoff

**This one's the fault of MapleleafCameo who said how much we like to abuse John and to whom I was talking about being the Property of HRH (Her Royal Highness) and sticks of rock. Ta, Honey!**

* * *

It was less than three weeks since her return and she was already getting into trouble, he thought ruefully. The three weeks mattered to him more than it might, as that was the period of time needed for the reading of banns. His wedding - their wedding - was due next Saturday. It would be rather a let-down if she weren't actually there for it. _So inconsiderate of her!_

_'Who the hell would go on a jaunt to a disused tube station under Charing Cross Station, on their own, and leave a note and a map anyway?' _he mused as he grabbed his phone and the gun he now kept under his bed. Sherlock wasn't picking up, so he fired off a text telling him where he'd gone and why, ignoring the hypocrisy of his actions.

The map was a detailed schematic of the abandoned tunnels built for the Jubilee line's original course, before being diverted down to Westminster. He found the partition walling between the disused Jubilee platforms and those for the rest of the station, as directed, more easily than he'd anticipated. The rush hour was so long gone that it was easier to slip through the fire exits without anyone seeing him than he could have hoped. He assumed that other interested parties had taken care of the alarms as nothing had sounded by the time he had clicked them shut again.

John tiptoed across the circulation area between the platforms for the disused line and looked about tentatively. No one in evidence. The archway was flooding with an eery blue light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. He could still make out the small piles of rubble and coatings of dust everywhere and was careful where he trod in case of making noise and drawing unwanted attention.

He was immediately confronted with the smudgy outline of dark, partial-footprints and corresponding splashes of what was presumably the same dark substance, down the corridor and trailing away out of sight onto the south-bound platform. Too large for her tiny feet, he thought and experimentally dipped a finger into one of the splashes, rubbing it between his fingers and holding it up to the light - unmistakably blood. If it was her blood, she could be at the source to the trail, injured or worse. That would have to be his first port of call and the owner of the footprints would have to wait.

John grasped his gun. Creeping around Criminal Central, even armed, was asking for trouble. He stealthily moved around the opening and checked all directions before following the bloody trail, pivoting around periodically to check around him for any hostile attention.

He ran across the open space at the bottom of the escalators and skidded to a halt in horror at what he saw. Her biker jacket was slung over the stationary handrail and a small pool of blood gave witness to the fact that he had found the source of the bloody footprints. So was that good news or bad? Was she injured or been killed and had been carried away, or had she nothing to do with the pool of blood at all? Or was she responsible for creating it? The latter seemed quite possible on past experience. He decided to leave the worrying until he had further information. He'd be of no use to anyone if he contemplated the worst at this point. In the meantime, he scooped up her jacket, she'd want that back later - he hoped.

He wished Sherlock was there. Sherlock would be able to make more of the gory mess of evidence. Well, he was no expert, but there was still something to be said for following the owner of the footprints. It was a lead of sorts in any case. They led onto one of the twin platforms, this one had been planned to head towards Aldwych, when the trains had stopped there in the nineties.

When John peered onto the platform he saw what she would calmly call a Mexican stand-off. She was stood with a gun pointed at a man and he at her. She was in a stance that gave John the impression she'd used firearms before, and often. Both hands were on the barrel and her shoulders were down and relaxed, her feet apart, the right slightly behind the left, with her weight evenly distributed so it was impossible to predict which way she might dart. There was a trail of blood leading off down the platform. There was no evidence of a body but he was relieved to see that the blood could not be coming from her.

She didn't look round as he stepped through the archway and raised his gun to point at the man. "John, not another step!" There was enough warning in her voice to halt him on the spot.

The other man turned his gun around to point directly at John as he spoke for the first time, "All you need do, is tell us where you've hidden it and we'll let your lover go!" And then he recognised the voice, the hint of Essex in his Estuary vowels, and John could see her having her head ducked by the Korean thugs and hear this man taunting her from the background, giving a message to Sherlock by announcing his presence. He'd played that recording over and over and there was no doubt in his mind it was the same man, the one who she had reported as being in strategic places around the world when certain bad things were going down.

He was jerked back to the present when she spoke in reply, her voice flat and emotionless. "Relationships don't matter, friendships don't matter, what you want doesn't matter, what is good for the people you care about doesn't matter. Once you work for the government, none of it matters anymore. Cut me open and you'll find 'Property of HRH' running through me like a stick of seaside rock[1]."

She pivoted round, stoney faced, her gun still raised to shoulder height and fired straight at John's chest. The last thing he remembered thinking before hitting the deck was, '_She shot me!_'

"Shame that was the last bullet - I'd like to have saved one for me to avoid what happens next," she said lowering the gun with her arms straight and looking down at the floor defeatedly. It was enough to put even Moriarty's righthand man off guard, she thought, and she rapidly raised the gun and fired in one fluid movement. One of his henchmen was lurking just out of sight and managed to deflect her arm enough that the shot went harmlessly into the wall over the track. The man with the Estuary vowels was gone in flash; the henchman disabled with a quick sweep to the back of his knees and a blow to his neck.

John was aware of her leaning over him. Time to say something crucial, momentous, something meaningful, might be his dying words after all - important to make your final words mean something. "_You shot me!_" he said with more than just a hint of petulance.

"Course I ruddy shot you - only thing I could think of to save your life! Oh John, why the hell can't you just stay out of harm's way? You could just have phone for backup! Don't think so well when you're around and it matters so much," she murmured not really apologetically.

John touched his chest and held his hand in front of his eyes, a feeling of disbelief creeping over him. "I'm bleeding!" he said plaintively.

"No you're not, you goose ... well, at least not from there." She was balling up her t-shirt and applied it to the back of his head tentatively, making him wince. "Sorry the same can't be said for your stupid head. What you want to go head-butting the floor for? Couldn't coat your head in kevlar too, more's the pity."

And then it dawned on John that he was wearing her jacket, the jacket he'd found at the bottom of the escalators and slipped on absentmindedly. The jacket that had saved his life - or had got him shot, as he'd like to think she wouldn't have pulled the trigger if he'd been wearing ordinary denim and not her kevlar biker gear. But if he wasn't bleeding from a bullet wound, and he had to take her word for that, as all he felt was numbness, where was the blood coming from?

And the last thing he thought as he slipped back into unconsciousness was, '_Blue angel! - so beautiful! - if it didn't look like Mycroft - why did it have to be Mycroft?_'

The train doors slid open to reveal Mycroft, looking for all the world like a blue-faced business commuter in the odd lighting. He was carrying his umbrella and a small black attaché case. Sherlock hopped down from the carriage in front and rushed over to his friend, now unconscious.

"At least when he's with me I don't get him shot!" he chided from a kneeing position. "Well, not often anyway."

* * *

**[1] _Stick of rock: seaside rock is a type of English boiled sweet (candy), made in the long, cylindrical (stick) shape. It has writing running through the length, made with coloured sugar, so that, wherever you break it, you can read the script._**


	2. Days Like These

_**I'd intended this to be a much longer chapter, but work and illness didn't allow. I'll be posting the small snippets I'd already written with the hope that they hang together - maybe one day I'll rework it, I'd thought there was some promise - along with my promise to finalise some details in earlier stories ... one day ...**_

* * *

_Secrecy is like virginity, once it is lost it is gone for good and there is no knowing what consequences may ensue._** Peter Lawrie**

**_And so, what was it all for? How did John Watson get to be under London in an abandoned tube station just days before his impending nuptials?_**

* * *

**Three days earlier ...**

"I've been defending these ruddy things with everything I've got," she said with a sigh, "but you know I don't believe it's in the public interest to be handing them over to you so blithely."

"Queen and Country, Dearheart. Queen and Country. Governments do as much harm as they can and as much good as they must - We must help ours do the right thing."

"Don't give me that crap, Mycroft."

"Don't swear my _dear, _it is beneath you and shows a lack of imagination."

"As does constantly quoting pop-speak and the radical left, when you vote Tory," she said, but smiling now. "Anyhow, I prefer Bart Yates' take - _heck doesn't cut it and swearing's kinda fun_!"

Mycroft smiled indulgently, with the air of an adult who is only half listening to an unruly child. "Seeing as you _didn't_ hand them over to the other side," he said cuttingly, "we'll live with the fact that you didn't _quite _appreciate the honour of the appointment."

"Royal _We_?" she asked innocently, playing on Sherlock's remarks about queens, but Mycroft had turned his back and was walking over to the safe. He placed the diaries within and clicked the door shut, twisting the tumbler randomly.

He was aware that she had not stopped watching him from the moment his attention turned to the safe, she had cocked her head slightly to one side as if listening intently to something. He could not see how even her close observation would help her break into it, if that was her intention. She had not been there to see him open it after all - he had taken the precaution of having it already opened before her arrival and emptied of all other documents. But what would be the point? She had had the diaries in her keeping all this time and hadn't disposed of them. She could easily have said that they had been stolen. Even Sherlock wouldn't have been able to conclusively prove that she had taken them herself.

He made a mental note to improve security in any case. She may be the daughter of one of his oldest and dearest friends, but still, better safe than sorry - he smiled to himself over the unintended pun. Time for social chit-chat he thought.

"How are the wedding plans?"

"Coming on nicely, thanks. Mycroft," she replied, in a much warmer tone. "I'm not big on fancy, so it's not that difficult to be honest." She smiled contentedly. "Oh, John wants to know if you're bringing a plus one. He's wanting to finalise the seating plan."

"No, lovely girl, not on this occasion." For a fleeting moment Mycroft looked almost wistful and then brightened, changing the subject. "And how _is _John?"

"Fine, thanks," she said. "He's discovering his inner daddy."

"And the Sherlocks?"

"Blooming, we're hoping to get him house trained any day now."

"God forbid! - And his godson?" Mycroft enquired, fully aware that she was talking about his brother and not her son of the same name.

"Mycroft, I can't tell you the pleasure of bringing up a child."

Mycroft smiled ruefully. "Oh, but I have had that pleasure. In my case the pleasure lasted until the infant in question was old enough to think out loud. I trust that your own child will be a continuing delight for many more years to come."

He rose and reached out a hand. "Talking of pleasures, Dearheart, this has certainly been one, an oasis is in an otherwise dry existence, but I must get back to the desert now, so send my ..." he struggled for a phrase that would cover all the intended recipients ... "Well, whatever you judge to be an appropriate way of conveying my solicitations to your brood," he challenged.

"I think we're passed handshakes, Mycroft," she said with a grin and kissed him smartly on the mouth, an action that left the usually composed man rigid with his thoughts for some moments after she had left the room. He then turned purposefully, hitting the intercom on his desk. "Anthea, all's clear, send him in."

* * *

_**The quotes that Mycroft stole are by two radical left writers:**_  
_Governments do as much harm as they can and as much good as they must._ **Claud Cockburn**

_We must helps ours do the right thing._ **Peter Lawrie**

* * *

**Two DAYS BEFORE John is shot** ...

"Burnt to a crisp, as they say. In a sealed safe, no sign of forced entry."

"Then the incendiary device was in the package itself."

"How that would be possible in an airtight safe, which becomes a vacuum no more than eighteen seconds after closing, I cannot say. Perhaps you are more of an expert than I on miraculous conflagration without access to oxygen? No? Perhaps you'll allow me to finish in that case? Ashes cold as the grave, so did not ignite on opening, wasn't alight when I closed it yesterday afternoon. Remains only of the item in question and no incendiary device evident."

"Then obviously opened, the contents burnt and then sealed once more."

"Obviously." Mycroft rose from the crouched position by the safe, walked over to his desk and slumped down into his seat.

"And you weighed the ashes?"

"_Obviously!_" A pause as the younger man raised an eyebrow. "And yes, consistent with the volume of the journals. Those diaries were of the highest national importance," Mycroft continued.

"And so there were no copies, no duplicates - interesting! So important that there were no steps made to safeguard the information they contained. So - important to keep from the general public ... national security or scandal?"

Mycroft sniffed gracelessly with a sour expression.

"Official secrets?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I'm losing interest, Mycroft. If you don't get to the point of why I'm here, I might just find somewhere I need to be more urgently. And don't tell me it's to determine modus operandi, as we both know better."

"I want you to follow your future sister-in-law."

"Congratulations, Mycroft, who's the lucky girl," Sherlock said with a mocking tone.

"Very droll. You know who I mean. I'd ask John, as he's glued to her side, but I can't see that working out, can you?"

"What makes you think I'll be any more compliant?"

"Because, dear brother, you distrust her as much as I do and together we may just find out why she's in touch with half of the Albanian criminal underworld, and some exceedingly peccant characters of the British persuasion too. Because she's not working for me."

"You know you get more pompous the closer you get to doing something even you disapprove of?" Mycroft had the grace to look abashed. Sherlock looked down at his feet and appeared to be coming to an unpleasant decision. "Ok, but don't expect me to take orders from your lot."

"When do I ever?" Mycroft asked. "Just let me know what she's up to and whether there's any danger to the nation, and we'll take it from there."

* * *

**The Day Before John is Shot ...**

"Well, how long did you lose sight of her then?"

Mycroft rubbed his hand through his hair in a distracted manner as he swopped the phone to his other ear and then switched it into the other hand too. It was a pointless gesture and he considered whether to switch it back again, but realised that he was reacting to a need to be in control of something and resisted the urge.

"Long enough then. Might as well not have bothered ... no, don't apologise ... oh you weren't ... no- ... I didn't think- ... If I might be permitted to get a- ... just so ... right ... as you please ... that'll- ... oh, dash it, he's gone! Why won't that brother of mine listen for two moments together?"

Mycroft addressed the last remarks at the buzzing handset in his hand as no one else was listening.

It had not been a satisfactory day so far. Nothing much had gone the way he'd planned it and Mycroft did not like his finally balanced plans to go out of kilter. Surprises were generally frowned on in his world. Things would not get better either but he was not about to find out about that until later - much later.

* * *

**_Sorry, I didn't promise any explanations ... hope to publish next chapter with a few answers quicker than my last update ... watch this space ..._**

**_And for those that notice these things - watch out for that eyebrow! =;-D  
_**


	3. Happily Ever After

_**One DAY AFTER THE SHOOTING**_:

John idly wondered how many times the people he loved most had given him concussion, shot at him, punched him, drugged him, threaten him, tied him up (don't ask!), had him hit by a cyclist, got him arrested, abducted him, held him at gun-point ... It was running well into double figures he thought. Even the Taliban didn't have such an extensive record of almost getting him killed.

One thing. There was plenty of time to think when you were in hospital. Not much else to do, though he could get used to Patient Line - what a neat idea to give patients access to the phone, internet and the TV all in one handy screen. Mycroft had paid a heavy whack onto his card, for the service, when John had refused his offer of a free private room. He preferred it on the ward anyway. Always something going on and someone to talk to when daytime TV let him down.

He'd been disappointed that Richard and Judy was off the air - _when did that happen_? Always amusing - seldom went as intended. He thought he'd never come across a man so willing to say inappropriate things in a public place, other than Sherlock, of course, or perhaps the Duke of Edinburgh, or maybe Boris Johnson. All good in their way, but none of the others came as a married double act like Richard and Judi - he didn't feel it appropriate to count the Queen as a straight man.

Just when he'd got fed up of reruns of _Ready Steady Cook_, she came in bringing the sunshine with her smile.

John wasn't in the mood for being lovey-dovey. Not until a few questions had been answered anyway.

"Right, explain to me the blood - don't tell me you keep vials of blood in all your top pockets on the off-chance you might have to shoot your boyfriends," he said, getting to business from the get-go. He was gratified that she didn't look surprised, if anything slightly relieved.

"Don't be silly, of course not. That would be ludicrous! Only top pockets of kevlar jackets and only on the off-chance of saving the life of fiancés - I'd not waste a good kevlar jacket on a boyfriend. It was murder getting that blood stain out."

"_Seriously_?" John tried not to sound too impressed. That would have taken a whole lot of forward planning and some amazing good luck too.

She looked as if she wasn't going to answer for the moment and then seemed to come to a decision. "The blood was a bonus. I was running a test for Sherlock and stuck it in there when I realised where Moran was hiding out," she said, gazing all the time into his eyes to gage his reaction. She knew that Mycroft had already told him of the identity of the man down the Tube, so she wasn't looking for a reaction to that piece of news. "Sherlock was furious about the blood until Molly agreed to run the tests on what was soaked into my jacket."

"Tell me about your relationship with Moran."

"_Relationship_? He was my own personal torturer for a while, but I've moved on now, since he jilted me. I know a man who can hurt me more with a look than Moran ever could ... is that what you mean?" She was trying to look amused, take it lightly, but failing for once to keep up the pretense. She was shaking slightly and John swallowed the impulse to stop questioning her further. They were getting married in a few days times and there were still things he had to know first.

"You know what I mean. What dealings have you had with Moran and Moriarty and their happy band? I know you go back way further than Korea."

"John, there are some things I can't tell even you. Not yet. Please believe me when I say I'd like nothing better than to tell you everything, but I can't." She swallowed and turned her head away slightly, her voice coming out in a near whisper, "I'd understand if you are going to cancel the wedding."

"Cancel? Our wedding? Why would I do that?" John reached out to her and she started slightly at the unexpectedness of his touch.

"I know that Mycroft has spoken to you. Not all of it is that farfetched, John. I'd not blame you for distrusting me. At least since I'm refusing to tell you anything more."

"Shan't be doing that, I'm afraid. Wedding's going ahead, as booked, if I have to get all of Her Majesty's Armed Forces to drag you down the aisle - I know a fair few of them and the rest would do anything to help out an injured army doc. Sooner we're married the better in my book. Be able to keep an eye on you then."

"I lie to you more than tell the truth, it's almost a hobby of mine and, even when I tell you I'm lying, you still believe me ... I shot you for goodness sake! Why would you trust me now?"

"Because, whatever you have done, you are on the side of the angels. And beside that - love is blind, you know."

* * *

Sometime later she was half lying on his bed, the curtains drawn around them as they talked. The nursing staff were either turning a blind eye, given their impending nuptials, or too busy to be bothered with the couple.

"Name one interesting thing about yourself that I don't know." John shifted onto one elbow to watch her face.

"Interesting or gross?"

"Either," he said shrugging as much as the bandages would allow.

"You know that coconut stuff that I use on my hair? If I wake up hungry and can't be bothered to get up and go to the kitchen, or it's just too cold to get out of bed, I eat that instead."

"Really?"

"Yeah, it's great with chocolate and it's 100% coconut oil so not really gross. And that Thai curry we ate the other night - it went into that too and then I rubbed the rest on my face. You?"

"I like to watch you while you're sleeping."

"Aw, that's sweet! ... In a creepy stalkerish way ... but sweet. Nothing gross then?"

"I didn't say that, did I. I live with Sherlock - there's plenty of gross. The contents of our fridge could provide all the props for a full length American horror movie - actually with a sequel, and a sequel to the sequel."

She wrinkled her nose in a manner that John took to be appealing. "Has Sherlock done anything with that seagull yet?"

"Nope, it migrated into the freezer for a while, and then back again when the freezer needed defrosting. It's days are numbered, whatever he says, it's smelling rather bad now. I never did find out what he wanted it for. He gets rather vague when asked."

"Yeah, from being really forthcoming about the severed head and various other body parts!" She was laughing as she spoke and John was reminded again why he loved her so much - she not only tolerated Sherlock, she 'got' him in the same way as he did. "Right, my turn. Name one thing you've done that you're truly proud of."

John looked pensive and almost like he was holding his breath. "One will do, you don't have to write me a list," she said smiling. He let his breath out in a rush.

"Just trying to think how to say it without being boastful ... I once saved a man's life, when we were in Afghanistan, using a bootlace and straw," he said looking modest.

"You couldn't be boastful if you tired, and that's really something, John."

He turned to look at her again and said, "Ok, you know the rules, it's your turn."

"Ah, so many, which one to choose," she said, laughing again. "When I was in Turkey years ago, there was an explosion in a barbers. I thought it was a terrorist bomb and automatically threw myself over the kid who was waiting to get his hair cut after me. Turns out I was wrong and the electrics had just blown, but his father was so impressed that I'd cared enough to risk my own life ... anyway, they're friends for life and they're coming on Sunday. The Duraks. You put them on a table with the youth group. I think they'll like that, Hakan's about the same age as they are now and wants to improve his English."

* * *

"She risked her life to get the Hammond Diaries to you-"

Mycroft squirmed uncomfortably. "I can't deny it looked that way ..."

"As for going to meet Sebastian Moran. Either she wants to get her revenge on him for killing her parents and for being complicit in her subsequent torture-"

"Yes, yes, we agreed that was possible. Sentimentality, Sherlock, blinding you to what's going on under your nose."

Sherlock ignored the personal comment, for once, and continued, "Or maybe, she has the diaries and wanted to trade them with Moran; for information most likely. She still doesn't know exactly what happened with her parents and it's obviously eating away at her." He gave his brother a meaningful look. "I'd not put it passed her to, either steal the diaries back, or have given you a good duplicate in their place and arrange for that little conflagration in your safe to make it look as if they'd been destroyed. She could have been using the diaries as a bribe."

"How about this for an alternative explanation of the facts? That she takes copies of the diaries for her _lover_, Moran, and destroys the originals to make it look like she doesn't want them exposed. I'll not deny that it's possible she's bartering them in exchange for information about her parents, she's not all evil, there may be good reason why she's selling out her country." Mycroft took a breath, expecting his brother to interrupt, but it didn't come. Perhaps Sherlock was having similar thoughts.

Mycroft continued, breaking the silence. "She covers herself by telling John where she is going, but he turns up rather earlier than she expects, he hadn't been due home until later in the day, and nearly catches them in the act. They improvise and make it look as if she is being held at gun point. She has to shoot John to prevent him from shooting Moran - either as he's her real lover or she hasn't got what she wants from him yet. Hell of a risk to shoot your fiancé, even at that range, wearing only that bikers' jacket. It's hardly a riot shield."

Sherlock looked sceptical. "You're forgetting that she genuinely loves him, Mycroft."

"Indeed I am not. People do the strangest things out of higher loyalty. In this case to deceased parents who she believes she has let down. We have reason to believe that she has killed several times in the pursuit of revenge for their deaths."

"Circumstantial at best. And how does that tie in with the Moran-boyfriend theory exactly?" Sherlock seemed to be on a roll now, and Mycroft wondered which of them his brother was trying to convince.

"You are allowing your feelings to cloud your judgement, dear boy. As I have told you before, caring is not an advantage. And this is no more than caring by proxy."

"Not sentimentality, Mycroft. I have good reason for doubting your suggested motive and allegiances, if not the version of actual events. My contacts in Milan and Tirana inform me that there is no hard evidence connecting her to any of the deaths, though her dealings with any of these men may well have a direct causal link."

'_Naivety_!' Mycroft thought, '_I didn't think him still capable_.' "And she's told you all about her past? ... I thought not. Something to hide then, or she'd have shared her holiday photos with John, I have no doubt."

Mycroft suspected that Sherlock was just as intent on contradicting his brother, as trying to prove something so unlikely. "Like _you _tell me everything, Mycroft? The Hammond Diaries? You want me to help you find the darned things, but won't tell me what they are. Does that make you duplicitous? - Well, obviously you are, yes, but a threat to national security? - Perhaps not in the way you believe she is, anyway." And there it was, the resentment that Mycroft wasn't able, not allowed, to take Sherlock fully into his confidence. The Official Secrets Act wasn't for the faint-hearted or sentimental. Mycroft would take more secrets to the grave than were in several seasons of the average Australian soap opera - Mycroft was rather partial to Sons and Daughters, which he had once mistakenly taken to be a version of a DH Lawrence classic of similar name.

"You ever thought about asking her outright?"

Mycroft looked at his brother as if he'd just suggested lunch on the moon.

"Oh honestly, Mycroft, it's a reasonable enough proposition."

Mycroft half smiled, saying, "I never thought I'd see the day I'd be taking advice on social etiquette from a self-confessed sociopath - even a high functioning one."

* * *

"How did you know where to look for Moran's men?" Mycroft asked in a tone he usually reserved for interrogating terrorists.

The young woman was undaunted by his demeanour and answered in a conversational manner, "You quoting verbatim from Beneath the City Streets - I've read it several times, I'm a bit of a Peter Lawrie fan, but I couldn't have quoted him quite so exactly. You must have just been reading it, or at least recently - put me on the track, if you'll pardon the pun."

Mycroft stifled a smirk. He'd forgotten how much she made him want to smile before he'd believed her to be in league with Moriarty's old band of cutthroats and villains. He still wasn't sure of her allegiances but at least she wasn't stringing Watson along and was genuinely marrying him out of love. He'd realised, in that moment, that he cared more whether she was being duplicitous with Sherlock's one and only friend than about her loyalty to the throne. Strange that, in one so committed to Queen and country, he thought reflectively.

He was brought back into the room by her raised tone. "I **_said_** - _and then I did some sleuthing and was lucky enough to chance on the plans that you'd had hidden in your safe_-"

"-how did you- ? Where did I- ? Why didn't someone- ?" Mycroft spluttered.

She looked rather smug and Mycroft was rather reminded of when he'd been wronged footed by Sherlock. "Thought you'd not heard me; that's a much more appropriate response."

"So, I still don't see. We'd looked through those maps and not been sure of Moran's hideout yet." Mycroft inconsequentially shifted some papers on his desk and was aware that she was again watching his every move, reminding him of her attention while he was placing the journals into the office safe.

"Let's just put it down to equal measures of luck and judgement, shall we." She had a slightly distracted air, as if she would rather be somewhere else.

Mycroft remembered Sherlock's advice about direct questioning and thought things would move a little faster, to both their satisfactions, if he came right out with it. "And the Journals? Did you, _do you _have them?"

She actually looked a little relieved and more attentive following his question. Either there was something that she was glad he was skipping over to get to this point, or she wanted to get on with this and make a full and frank disclosure. "No, Mycroft. You're just going to have to take my word on that one. I handed them in to you and you put them into the safe. What happened next was pure luck on my part. Gave me the opportunity to pretend to have stolen them back again and use them to get information out of Moran."

"Obviously successfully, given that John finds you on the business end of a gun ..."

"Ah, yes, well. Not an _unmitigated _success. Moran's not a complete simpleton. It's also possible that he was responsible for whatever happened to the diaries - or knows who was." She looked rueful and rolled her eyes as if mocking herself, Mycroft thought. It was like a discussion about an amusing encounter at a family gathering. Was there nothing that she took seriously? Her one true love had almost been killed - at her hand no less - surely she would take at least that seriously?

"Did you learn whether he was involved in your parents' murder?"

"Their _murder_? No." Mary looked as if the possibility hadn't crossed her mind. Mycroft wondered whether to question her further, but thought that perhaps his quota of honest answers would eventually run dry.

"Mycroft, who was it who came to see you after I'd delivered the diaries?"

"How did you know anyone did?"

"I wasn't sure until I just saw your reaction, but I smelt something I'd not smelt for a long while. A combination of tobacco, a particular exclusive brand, and expensive aftershave. It was ... I ... he couldn't possibly be alive still though ... Mycroft, tell me, was it him?"

* * *

**_I fully expect that much of this story has brought up more questions than it has answered. I'm not good at giving away explanations. I don't like being handed things on a plate - I like a bit of mystery in my fiction - so that's the way I roll. I hope the next short sequence will make up for that a little, for those of you who do like answers. Finally, my OC will be revealed and that bit of speculation, at least, will be put to bed._**

* * *

John was relieved that the NHS now took a less proprietorially view of their patients and wanted them out at the first possible opportunity. It meant he could make his own decision about whether he was fit to walk down the aisle, and he'd decided a long time ago that hell, high-water, wild horses and even Mycroft could not keep him from doing just that.

Nothing could have keep him from this moment, though he did hold his breath when the Rector asked, "First, I am required to ask anyone present who knows a reason why these persons may not lawfully marry, to declare it now." He'd automatically glanced at Sherlock, who was looking innocent, and as normal, as Sherlock could in public. John finally let his breath go when the request was met with silence.

He was in a stunned state, unable to believe that this was finally happening, that he would get the woman he loved to agree to be his for the rest of their lives. Then it came to the important part, where they exchanged vows ... He took her right hand in his, shaking slightly, as he said:

"I, John Hamish Watson, take you, Mary Elira Morstan, to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward;  
for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer,  
in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish,  
till death us do part; according to God's holy law.  
In the presence of God I make this vow."

John idly wondered whether the Rector's plea to 'forsake all others' would apply to a life of adventure with Sherlock. It was rather a relief, knowing Mary, that he'd never have to test that out.

_And so, they all lived happily ever after ... though that little fairy tale is likely going to be tested out before the honeymoon is over ..._

**THE END**...

**_Can I just say that Mary's middle name in this chapter is not canon - it fits with the backstory I have for my character who, in earlier stories, may or may not have been Mary._**


End file.
